Lost Labor's Loved by Kirk Wood Bromley
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Lost Labor’s Loved By Kirk Wood Bromley Characters: Teleste – Owner of Ottaquecho Estates Margrith, Yola, Pekabo – Her friends Cloice – Their attendant Andras, Easton, Tarmac, Boyd – Visiting men Eleuthere – Their attendant Dada Misterio di Mistico – A local mystic Slack – His follower Nozemokeen – A local boy Malvena – A local girl Beauretard, Ramsuchit, and Deepu – Local academics Early – The groundskeeper Plunk – The security guard Scene 1. Ottaquecho Estates in the Green Mountains of Vermont. Enter Teleste, Margrith, Yola, and Pekabo. Teleste- Let freedom, that all fight for in their lives, Resolve our ever-contradicting play And give us meaning in our meaning’s loss; For we are tired of mourning and desire The easy recreation of our days, When, free of flesh-eating society That from the surface sloughs the spirit’s core, Our hearts rejoin integrity and marvel. Therefore, to nurture nature’s sense in us, We have retreated here to this retreat, Where, keeping warm against destructive winter, We will, like in a thought-cocoon, become Not wood nymphs, dizzy, drab, and season-drunk, But monarchs intellectual and bright. This colony I christen Ottaquecho, Signifying, in Iroquois, ‘New Leaf,’ Which you three, Margrith, Yola, Pekabo, Must certainly desire to overturn. So, all that’s left is you accept the rules Recorded in this constitution here, Whereby we will rejuvenate ourselves, And promise on our friendship, not in fear, Commitment to our program for a year. Margrith- I’m in, Teleste. My life’s been too much death: 1 Happy hour, buzzbins, tootin boys like meth. Careening thru some triple picture deal, I’m too felt up, and now I want to feel. Yola- Since my sister’s death, all my motive’s heat Has shivered in a tundra of defeat, And seeing fame proffer no liberation, Within your gates I seek emancipation. Pekabo- I join your cult. Teleste- Our freedom colony. Pekabo- Free from what? Yola- Fame and society. Pekabo- Those are the things I seek when I am free! Teleste- I cede the clue, my cross-word Pekabo. Margrith- What’s your point? Pekabo- This pointless thing we do! Recently, you all, and I, somewhat, Have registered our literary blips On publishing’s erratic, swift marquee: Yola churned out ‘Hoping to Inhale,’ Margrith, ‘Women are genius, Men from jars,’ And I am nearly finished with my novel, That now, the billfold tongue of recognition Calls out for us to do that thing we do, Yet we into the woods have here withdrew? Back to your social barns and noble causes! While you get ticks, the clock of fortune pauses. Teleste- So, let it stop; my inner-clock rules me. I am myself when obligation-free. Pekabo- Why be yourself? Teleste- To create what I want. No system should desire ever daunt. Pekabo- You mean, you should be free to do whatever? Teleste- Yes. An artist has no need of never. Pekabo- Then my first piece, called ‘No Peace,’ starts our plot. She screams. Yola- You’ll take in small dinero with that slot. Pekabo- If intake is creation’s golden grunge, Then I’m a net, a satellite, a sponge: I’ll take in Burgerking and get a gut, Pajama princess, sleeping past the noon. I’ll haul in dumpsters-full of trash, and shoot, My eye on bull, at empties with my gun. I’ll smuggle in some metangelic pills And blow my head thru surd conspiracies, 2 Becoming of myself my own Fresh Kills, And then I’ll found an industry of sleaze, Film some porn, down there, beside the lake, Preserving our expressions free and fake. Yola- Meat, weapons, trash, sloth? Margrith- And pornography? Teleste- The nemesis of creativity! Pekabo- Yet they are what we’ll do if we are free And creation’s enemy is the tree! Teleste- The tree? Margrith- How does that follow? Pekabo- Creatively. Do not we saw down trees to press our pages? Random Houses love not acreages. Don’t trees, standing transfixt, a writer block? Don’t trees, falling unheard, our senses mock? O, trees are bad, consuming of our spirit, And when I see a laurel, I must clear it. Cloice- O, Boo is like the humid, grudging June That to the startled shoots denies her trickling. Teleste- Then she’ll have scanty produce to be pickling. Margrith- And all she’ll feel of life will be a tickling. Pekabo- Least I won’t die a fed-on-freedom sickling. Yola- That haiku was a low coup. Pekabo- So, what’s new? Teleste- Must you forever foil with your fun? Pekabo- Fine, then. Cloice. Read our constitution. Cloice- “This intentional community is hereby instituted to foster total creative freedom. Rule number one: there are no rules.” Teleste- An awesome tenet for our tribe. Pekabo- An awful paradox that kills our vibe! A rule against all rules is ridicule. Margrith- Rules are bogus, Pekabo. Pekabo- By what rule? Teleste- Rule number two. Pekabo- That cannot be. Its precedent negates it. Cloice- “To preserve our freedom, we will partake of no communications, receive no press, follow no schedules, consume no drugs or alcohol, use no petrol or electricity, take no deliveries or phone calls, grow our own food, meditate 2 hours per day, attend lectures, sew our own clothes, and accept no visitors.” Pekabo- This is freedom? Teleste- Freedom regulated. Margrith- Perestroika prison. 3 Yola- Liberty and Death. Cloice- Unfree to be you and me. Pekabo- What unlawful laws to keep us lawless! No communications? No drink? No drugs? How will I unwind my stressing spirit? No electricity? Grow my own food? When will I find the time to have a mood? And O, no visitors? But how create When I cannot upon occasion mate? Teleste- Growth means doing only what is best. Pekabo- That’s why, growing up, we grow depresst. Teleste- We must inhibit what inhibits freedom. Pekabo- And what inhibits freedom more than freedom? Look around you: nature’s glad-in-gloom Has fallen on the weary, worried woods. The land is beat a bruise of yellow-red, Dying, as the season crayons upon it, Too free, like children catchless in the rye. Commit, if you desire to be free, To change yourself within this constancy: November, alone, sleat saws at your skin. December, alone, flakes pile to the roof. Jan’ury, alone, limb rubs lonely limb. Feb’uary, alone, bed’s a frozen hoof. What freedom’s more creative in this chill Than whisp’ring to a man, ‘may I use your quill?’ When geese are squawking migrant to the south, Should not the king and squaw be mouth to mouth? If men aren’t on your chest, they’re on your thoughts, A virtual Southern France in North Vermont, As stuffy New England turns to merry Old, Like jagermeister, warming when it’s cold. In nature’s bauhaus, singles follow swarm, Fiction follows function follows fantasy follows form. When dark, your eyes imagine by their light, Then night skips night to make each night a night, And you take setting suns for rising bliss, Which soon dawn up, an a.m.-empty myth. Each season is a sex-act, which this sect Thru long and firm resolve will not neglect, So you, seeking your freedom in restriction, Will exchange creation for addiction. Cloice- Hot flash of discourse, she can represent. Margrith- I do get all pent up when I repent. Yola- Cloice, this is not house of buggin. Cloice- Talk to the hand, cuz you are grippin. 4 Pekabo- What happens to me if I break these bonds? Cloice- “Eternal silent treatment from your sisters.” Pekabo- Then let us say goodbye forever now. Teleste- And why? Pekabo- O, sweet Teleste, your mind’s a skit! With every word you lose what comes of it! Six months ago, in foolish April, we Met maskful four sedate-in-study studs, Who, at war with earth’s hormonal posse, Had sworn to scholar, fast, and feel no flesh. After our love games, your father’s death Our conjures interrupted, so we left Prescribing them reclusion, each from each, To do detention’s research in the dark, After which we promised to meet them here In six more months (the total of a year)! Do not be naughty, telling boys be bold, That you, their duty done, be drear and cold. What happens when their vernal, lusty light Comes shining thru this seminar of night? Teleste- This is a problem. What are we to do? Yola- They will not come. Margrith- Men either run or cheat. Pekabo- O, not when such as we are their receipt; And we, trying to do just what we want, Ever return to some past commitment. Teleste- Why are you here, my petulant Pekabo? Pekabo- To celebrate my mental Halloween, To beg those tiny snickers, to careen And bust the scowling pumpkin of my skull, To scare my daylights out, to egg and ball, But now I am expected to be create, And so am lost in conflict and debate, Cuz if I know us raving babes, when free Creation will in deconstruction spree. Teleste- So drop out, Pekabo. You are divested. If freedom frightens you, go get arrested. Pekabo- No, I’ll stay, to do what none can do And witness you infantilizing you: They’ll call this circle of naps, Pointlessism, Cheat Poetry, and Abstract Stealism. Art will soon reformalize to Arthur, And meditations will finish with ‘Ah, men,’ You’ll call up Cliff to get his notes, I’m sure, And write a history, called “What Has Ben?” Yet, as you founding mothers sell yourselves 5 Into the lowest, grossest, quickest buzz, All mindful of my own proclivity, Freedom’s best example I, unfree.